


Confessions of a Serial Dater

by OpalFruits



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adult Frisk, Conflicted Sans, Flamboyant Mettaton, Frisk is a Dating Pro, Gender-Neutral Frisk, Humour, I'll add more tags as/if I think of any, Makeover-Happy Mettaton, Other, Puns Aplenty, Reluctant Sans, Reluctantly Punning Papyrus, Sans is the 'Last Man Standing', Selective Mute Frisk, blushing Sans, much fluff, skele-smooches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalFruits/pseuds/OpalFruits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk - in their role as Monster Ambassador - has managed to <i>'date'</i> their way through the entire monster population... And a fair few humans to boot.</p><p>Sans is the last man standing, and they've been saving their best material just for him.</p><p><b>Scared?</b> </p><p>"of frisk the serial dater?" Sans snorted. "definitely."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up Call

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this story ended up this way... I didn't intend to write nearly as much for it as I have, and the way it's ultimately turned out - while more or less pleasing - is nothing like what I originally planned.
> 
> That's writing for you I guess!
> 
> Updates will be every two to three days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snazzy new cover art for this story was drawn by the wonderful Shayromi! They also drew [this piece of awesome](https://78.media.tumblr.com/a5a9b14df04c4d3187eaa074445e1032/tumblr_p6bdhsZfoB1vfx038o2_1280.png)!

                                                                

“Knock knock.”

Sans jerked awake to the sound of eager rapping on his bedroom door.

Blinking – in as much as a skeleton _can_ blink – he grimaced against the sunshine streaming through a crack in the curtains, bony arm automatically coming up to shield his eye sockets. Belatedly he remembered he hadn't bothered with pyjamas last night, rendering the action pointless. The light continued to stab at his eyes through the space between his radius and ulna.

“ _Knock knock_ ,” came the voice again, more insistent this time.

Sans groaned.

A glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table revealed the hour to be ungodly. Just a little after nine, which – while not technically what most people would interpret as _ungodly_ – was still _waaaay_ too early to be awake on a weekend.

Nevertheless, he rolled onto his side. Of all the ways to be dragged into wakefulness, he supposed a knock knock joke wasn't the worst.

“who's there?” he yawned, already smiling. He had a feeling he already knew - he'd recognise that voice anywhere.

“Date.”

_oh no._

Sans rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly unbearably tired. “seriously, kid? it's not even ten yet...”

Quiet expectation was his only reply. Now that they knew he was listening – now that he'd already bumbled head first into the trap – they'd wait out there all day if they had to. Worse, they wouldn't say another word to _anyone_ until the joke cycle was complete. Sans knew this from unpleasant experience, and fielding complaints from Frisk's extensive list of acquaintances wasn't really what the skeleton wanted to do with his day.

God help him.

“date who?” he sighed at last.

“Date _me_!”

Despite himself, Sans let out a little chuckle. He had to give the kid points for persistence at least. When they wanted something, they _really_ went for it. Pity they couldn't channel that same drive into something more productive...

He frowned.  _ **productive?**_ _can't believe i just thought that._

Welp, he'd better get it over with. And maybe once they'd talked they could even go get some breakfast or something. Frisk's treat. They'd woke him up after all – the least they could do was feed him.

“gimmie a minute,” he called, kicking the twisted blanket off his legs. It took him a few seconds to locate the previous day's clothes in the bombsite that was his bedroom, a few more to gather them using magic. With a cursory sniff – yeah, they were clean enough for today – he pulled them on, before reclining back against the wall and rubbing the bridge of his non-existent nose.

Wearily, he waved a hand at his bedroom door and it swung open to reveal a smiling Frisk. No longer the shy, fidgety child Sans once knew, they gave a cheeky wink and wriggled the fingers of their right hand in greeting.

“alright bud, come in. guess we need to talk.” _again_ , he added to himself.

He wasn't sure how many times they'd gone through this – enough for the situation to have lost some of it's levity, at the very least. But maybe that was Sans' fault. Clearly, he hadn't been firm enough before. He'd been too gentle in his rejection(s), not wanting to hurt their feelings – and in doing so he'd left them too much room to doubt his sincerity.

Well, no more. Today he was going to be blunt. No holding back.

He rubbed the vertebrae in his neck, wondering where to begin. Frisk grinned at him guilelessly, flopping onto the mattress with an air of utter relaxation. Which was weird, because it's not like they didn't know where this was going; they'd gone through the same shtick often enough by now that Frisk could probably recite his excuses word for word.

“okay... this, uh...” God, it was too early for this. “this has to stop, pal.”

Rehearsed joke spent, Frisk slipped back into their preferred method of communication. Their hands flew through the signs with practised fluidity, and it was only because Sans had known them for so long that he was able to keep up.

 **I'm not hearing a 'no'.** They beamed, as if this simple fact was in itself a victory. **Come on, just one little date. I promise you'll have a great time.**

Sans laughed. Whether or not he enjoyed himself was entirely besides the point.

“we have a great time _all_ the time,” he pointed out. “doesn't mean we have to go slapping a label on it.”

**Scared?**

“of frisk the serial dater?” Sans snorted. “definitely.”

It was true. Upon hitting their teenage years – and all the _awesomeness_ that had brought – Frisk had slowly but surely worked their way through each and every monster (and human) in Ebott. Not in a freaky way or anything... It was all very innocent, something that had started out as a fun way to get to know the people they had to represent in their role as Monster Ambassador. Eventually, that simple desire had turned into a game, with the end goal being to eventually date everyone.

Literally.

 _Everyone_.

Sans, as far as he knew, was the last man standing. Even the kid's parents had been dated! Grillby had been dated, his daughter Ember, all of the dogs (including the annoying one). New humans who came to settle in monster territory got a complimentary date for their trouble, if by 'complimentary' one meant 'mandatory' – bizarrely though, no one had ever tried to refuse. Undyne and Alphys had been double dated (as in, Frisk had dated both at the same time), Papyrus had been _re_ -dated... Napstablook and Mettaton; Bratty and Catty; _all_ of the Temmies...

Really, it was damn near his duty to refuse. If it was all a game then _someone_ had to be on the other side, right? Might as well be him.

Frisk shook their hand back and forth in front of their face, nose wrinkled. **It's different with us.**

“...different _how_?” Sans asked, alarm bells ringing. He didn't know which would be worse – them trying to date him to add him to their tally, or trying to date him for real.

It wasn't that he didn't _like_ Frisk – of course he did. Really, what's not to like? Frisk was great. They laughed at all his jokes, they joined in with all his pranks, and as a bonus, they were good to Papyrus. And that was before he even took into account all the secrets they shared – all the timeline bullshit, and all the nightmares and psychological scarring left over from that. They had an _understanding_. A bond that, while different to what he had with his brother, was just as powerful in it's way.

The problem was that he just wasn't the dating type. Period.

Aside from the obvious – y'know, the fact that he was a skeleton and didn't function the same way humans did (a subject he knew rather too much about, thanks to an unfortunate burst of curiosity some years back) – he wasn't sure he had the energy for it. Sans was lazy in all things, and all that extra commitment sounded like nothing but a bad time to him. Naturally he'd dabbled before, so he knew what he was talking about; there were minimum _together-time_ requirements, dress codes to consider, extra holidays and anniversaries to make an effort for...

Honestly, it was such a bother.

 **We're...** Frisk signed thoughtfully, seeming to struggle. **We...**

With an irritated huff, they gave up. Instead, they leaned forward and put the palm of their hand on his chest – right where his heart would be if he had one.

“Friends,” Frisk murmured. “ _Best_ friends.”

“...heh. well, can't argue with that.” How that made the dating thing _different_ , Sans couldn't guess. He had a feeling Frisk was just artfully avoiding the question. Did he imagine it, or did their cheeks turn ever so slightly pink for a second there?

 **So, you'll go?** Frisk's hands flowed rapidly through the motions, distracting Sans from his train of thought. **It's just one date. You don't even have to do anything; I'll handle all the details. Besides, you're the only one left and you _know_ I'll get you eventually.**

Well that was... ominous. Sans grinned, secretly feeling relieved. So this _was_ about their tally. That was... good, he supposed. Not that he liked being just another notch on their metaphorical bedpost, but at least they weren't entertaining ideas of anything more serious.

“i don't suppose ya'd be willing to consider one of our _many_ hangouts a date and just be done with this already, would ya?” he tried, surprised to feel his own will weakening.

Predictably, Frisk shook their head. “A date-ee needs to know they've been dated.” **Besides,** they added in hands. **I haven't had a chance to lay the moves on you. I want to see how you handle it.**

“...now i _am_ scared.” And worryingly, he was only half joking. He tried to think of a pun to lighten the mood, but nothing suitable came to mind. Ah well – maybe he'd have a _light-_ bulb moment later.

He quickly turned the laugh at his inner punning into a somewhat strained cough. If Frisk noticed, they didn't say anything.

 **Don't be. It'll be fun – ask anyone, I'm the best dater around.** They offered a smug thumbs up before scrambling excitedly to their feet. **I'll pick you up at six tonight, okay? Don't worry about a thing, I've got it covered.**

Startled, Sans suddenly realised that the conversation had gotten away from him. Had he already agreed? Had he even _intended_ to? He couldn't remember. It was too damn early, and he was tired and confused. Plus he was starving; he'd never been able to think straight on an empty stomach (figuratively speaking). He started to protest, but Frisk was already letting themselves out onto the landing.

His words fell ineffectually into the stale silence of his bedroom.

“i guess that's a 'no' on breakfast then?” he huffed, scratching his skull.

 


	2. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans thinks the situation over and ultimately decides it's probably easier to just let Frisk have their stupid date.

Sans emerged from his room a few hours later, having fallen back asleep despite the very best of intentions.

The house was silent. No doubt Paps was out training with Undyne, or else engaged in some other equally energetic activity. His bro, perversely enough, believed that extra free-time should be spent doing extra crunches... Go figure.

By unspoken agreement Sans was ( _usually_ ) left to sleep in on the weekends, on the condition that he made an effort to clean the house when he got up. It was an easy allowance to make. Papyrus never made any mess he didn't immediately clean himself, and Sans only made mess on the rare occasions he wasn't out or napping.

Even when there _was_ work to be done, it wasn't any trouble. Mostly because he'd been outsourcing the job to Frisk for years. The kid was happy to do whatever odd jobs needed done, all for the low, low price of 10G and a nice cream. Sure, maybe it was a bit of a silly arrangement now that Frisk was an adult, but they'd never complained about it so... win-win.

A casual survey revealed the place to be immaculate – Frisk must have done it before they left, or perhaps even before waking him up. Sans made a mental note to pay his dues later and slouched into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge. He coolly admired the kid's handiwork as he fumbled inside for a bottle of ketchup. _huh, looks like they fixed that wonky drawer handle too._  That probably deserved an extra nice cream or something...

His gratitude soured as he remembered the date he'd been tricked into accepting. _maybe not._

The ketchup bottle was halfway to Sans' mouth before he noticed the sticky note attached to it. Curious, he peeled it off and read the immediately identifiable scrawl with a raised eyebrow (or eye _bone_ , as it were).

_Morning, Lazybones!_

_Or should I say afternoon? Knowing you, it's probably already past lunchtime._

Sans glanced at the time display on his microwave (just his, because Papyrus believed that microwaving was a sin). Quarter to one in the afternoon. He shrugged – it didn't take much in the way of psychic powers to divine _that_ outcome. Typically, he didn't even open his eyes until about two most Saturdays.

_You're probably planning on heading to Grillby's soon. I've already told him that whatever you order is on me today, so feel free to 'burn' some cash. ;)_

_Also, I took the liberty of enlisting some help to get you spruced up for tonight. Don't worry – minimum effort on your part, I promise. I just want something SANSational to look at on our date. :p_

_'Ketchup' to you later!_

_Frisk <3_

By the time he finished reading the note, Sans didn't know whether to laugh or slam his skull in the fridge door. There was an annoying blue tinge to his cheekbones, and while he was mostly amused – buttering him up with cheesy puns was certainly an interesting approach – he couldn't help but be a little irritated too.

Whether at Frisk's brazenness or his own ridiculous reaction... Well. That _was_ the question, wasn't it?

“what have i got myself into here?” he wondered aloud, crumpling the paper in his hand and tossing it in the general vicinity of the waste bin.

He missed.

Of course, it wasn't too late to cancel. He could phone them right now, tell them in no uncertain terms that he wasn't going. It wasn't like he'd technically said 'yes' anyway... He'd just been too tired to say 'no'.

Sans sighed, closing his eye sockets and massaging his temples. _what's the point?_

Even if he called it off now, how long would it be before he was back in this position all over again? Frisk had been hounding him to go on a date for _months_  now. Obviously they weren't giving up any time soon – Sans wondered if they even knew _how_ to give up. And every time they sprung the question it meant more work for him. Days of energy-consuming avoidance tactics; getting up early to escape before they came over, coming home late to make sure they were gone before he got there, actually _checking_ his phone before he answered it to make sure it wasn't them... And when they inevitably cornered him – usually despite him taking every possible precaution – he was the one who had to come up with the excuses and jokes necessary to smooth things over.

Honestly, it would probably be less stressful at this point to just let them have their way.

Annoyed with the whole damn situation, Sans sullenly returned the ketchup to the fridge untouched. He would get some at Grillby's, he decided – the fire monster's special recipe stuff tasted better anyway, and since Frisk was footing the bill...

A genuine grin stretched his face.

Make that _two_ bottles.

 


	3. Odd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something... strange about Grillby's today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter today, since the last one was so short.

Almost the instant he walked through the door, the atmosphere at Grillby's Surface Diner (usually just called Grillby's, for simplicity's sake) changed perceptibly.

For as long as Sans could remember, there'd always been a pleasant warmth in the air at Grillbz' – and not just because it's owner was literally the 'hottest' guy he knew. Underground or surface, the pervading sense of friendliness and welcome in Grillby's had gotten the skeleton through more than a handful of rough patches in his time. There were precious few occasions when the place had felt anything less than positively jovial (and most of _those_ hadn't really happened, technically speaking).

But the mood when Sans arrived at his favourite dive that afternoon went from 'cheerful' to 'funereal' in less time than it took Undyne to lose her temper.

Several eyes – not all of them pairs – followed him with pity as he made his way to the bar. Greater Dog whined as he passed; the Dogi tightened their hold on each another (and were those _tears_ in Dogaressa's eyes?); Claptrap, a monster who was mostly teeth and not much else, muttered a markedly less enthusiastic “Hey, Sansy...” than usual. It was all very...

Odd.

“oookay...” Sans murmured, carefully seating himself on his usual stool. “who died?”

No one answered.

“Don't mind them,” Grillby said, voice crackling pleasantly as he made his appearance from the kitchen. He shot a meaningful glare at his patrons, and they reluctantly went back to their business. “Can I get you anything?”

Sans frowned. Why did he get the feeling that most (if not all) of the whispered conversations now taking place around the room were about him? He was so busy being freaked out, he almost forgot what he'd come for in the first place.

“... uh... ketchup?” If he'd had skin, Sans was sure it would've been crawling. “and fries. and hey, grillbz?” he added, getting cautiously to his feet, eyes darting around the room. Every time his gaze brushed someone else, that person quite deliberately turned away. “i'm gonna sit... uh, somewhere else.” _somewhere less exposed._

“Sure thing. Ember'll be right out.”

Making sure to keep his back to the wall, Sans sidled into an out-of-the-way booth near the relatively new (but somehow still _broken_ ) jukebox. He tucked himself into the corner, endeavouring to make himself as small as possible, and let the high-backed benches and dim lighting do the work of shielding him from view. While far from perfect – Greater Dog was tall enough that nothing short of a _palisade_ would block his line of sight – it was enough to at least give the _illusion_ of privacy.

If he weren't so unsettled, Sans knew he would probably be annoyed. This was Grillby's after all _–_ if he couldn't relax here, of all places, where _could_ he unwind? What the hell was _wrong_ with everyone today?!

It wasn't long – or maybe it was; Sans wouldn't know, he was kind of distracted – before Grillby's shy daughter edged over, balancing his order on a tray in one hand. He took one look at her face, soft with sympathy beneath the green flames licking over her features, and groaned. He hoped it sounded more good-natured than it felt.

“not you too, kiddo,” Sans sighed, uncapping his ketchup before Ember even had a chance to put it on the table. He took a long, contemplative draught. It didn't taste as good as it normally did - his mood sunk further. “what's with the _ember_ -assing look?”

What? Just because he was uncomfortable, he couldn't pun?

Ember fidgeted nervously with the tray, running it through her hands and tapping her fingers on the surface. She didn't speak, although that in itself wasn't exactly out of the ordinary, but she didn't leave either, opting to stand anxiously by the table while Sans racked his brain for something else to say. He was about attempt another joke, maybe whip out the ol' whoopee cushion or something, when she suddenly exploded into motion.

“Oh _Sans!”_ Without any kind of warning, Ember threw her fiery arms around his shoulders. The heat from her embrace was pleasant, if a bit stifling, and Sans tried to tell himself that _that_ was why he could feel his face warming up. He certainly wasn't uncomfortable or anything. Nope. This was just fine.

Sans patted her back awkwardly, at a loss for anything better to do.

“I... I mean, _we –_ we heard. I'm so happy for you!”

“...what?”

The girl took a step back and wiped some kind of residue from one eye – a tear maybe, or what passed for one when your entire being was consumed in a blazing inferno.

“Your date with Frisk,” Ember said, as if it were obvious. “We all heard, and... You're in for _such_ a lovely time. Really! Frisk is...” She seemed to struggle for a moment. “they're great,” she settled on at last. “And don't worry – when it's all over, we'll be here for you, all right? All of us. You can have as much ketchup as you want, and-,”

“Ember!” Grillby scolded, watching their interaction from behind the bar. Sans wasn't sure whether Grillbz was trying to save him from further... _whatever_ it was that was going on here, or if he was just trying to stop his daughter from promising away all their ketchup.

Once he got over the initial shock of Ember saying more than two words to him all in one sitting, Sans tried – and failed – to process what it was she'd actually said.

“wait a minute... _that's_ what all this is about?!” Sans asked incredulously. “i'm getting all this...” There wasn't really a word to describe _what_ he was getting right now. He shook his head, brushing past it. “'cause i'm bein' dragged on a date with frisk?”

“S-sorry.” Ember ducked her head. Sans wished he was better at reading fire elemental's expressions. Was that shame on her face? Pity? He honestly couldn't tell. “We're just worried about you, that's all. We-,”

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sans interrupted, dropping his head into his hands. None of this was making any kind of sense. “'worried _'_? why would anyone need to be _worried_? is the kid really that bad?”

“Oh no!” Ember exclaimed, seeming appalled at the very thought. “They're-,”

“great?” Sans supplied with a grin. The edges felt stiffer on his face than usual.

“Yeah, exactly! I'm sure you'll have the absolute _best_ time. It's just...” Ember paused.

Someone coughed.

“They're _too_ good,” a new voice put in, eventually.

Sans leaned forward to see who'd spoken. It was Doggo, frowning into his tankard with his eyes narrowed – whether because he couldn't actually _see_ the drink, or because he was trying to look cool and pensive was anyone's guess. His guide dog whined somewhere under the table. “Best date I ever had, no contest.”

There was a scattering of muttered agreement all round.

“Ain't never had 'nother one like it.” This from one of the bar flies – one who'd had a few too many already, if the slur in his ( _her? it's?)_ voice was any measure. “Ruined me fer dating, so they did.”

“It _is_ a shame,” Grillby conceded wistfully, finally allowing himself to be dragged into the fray. He was polishing an already clean glass with a dish cloth, a nervous tick that betrayed his otherwise calm facade. He fixed Sans with a gentle smile. “They're just not the type to settle down.”

“Damn near breaks your heart,” Claptrap sighed.

A pensive silence fell.

Huh. So _that's_ how it was.

They all thought Sans was going to fall head over heels for the kid, and inevitably get his fragile little heart trampled on. It would actually be kinda cute, if it weren't so ridiculous. Honestly. Did they really think so little of him? Even supposing he was remotely interested in matters of romance – which he wasn't – Sans was already wise to all the kid's tricks. He'd even taught them a few himself, back when their intention to date their way through the monster population had still been something of a joke. If there was _anyone_ who could resist Frisk's (admittedly considerable) charms, it was him.

And he was going to prove it.

When, after an extremely tense minute, the silence showed no signs of letting up, Sans cleared his throat (despite not actually having one) and drained the last of his ketchup.

“welp. it's been... _something_ , i guess. but i gotta burn some rubber.” _heh. burn. good one._

The uplifting effect of the pun was slightly ruined when, halfway out the door, Sans recalled Frisk saying something similar in their note that morning.

God... now he was reusing jokes. He just could not catch a break today.

 


	4. Incentive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mettaton and his trusty sidekick arrive for a makeover sesh. Naturally, Sans requires some convincing.

Sans whiled away the rest of the afternoon the way he liked best. Half-asleep on the couch, with the TV tuned to some shitty Mettaton quiz show (although to the robot's credit, he'd been studying up since the monsters hit the surface – his games actually halfway made sense these days). It was a rare treat, such inactivity on a Saturday; normally his post-lie-in schedule was filled with _stuff_.

What could he say? For such a lazybones, he had a lot of friends to keep happy.

Not today though. Papyrus was busy with Undyne – some new harebrained training scheme, something about the Monsterlympics – and Alphys was working overtime at the lab. Tori was away on a trip with her school, Asgore was at a gardening show out of town, and Sans' bar-buddies were all acting _weird_.

Then there was Frisk.

Frisk was... He probably didn't want to know.

It was in this slovenly position, at precisely 17.03, that his over-eager 'prep team' found him later that day.

Without so much as a cursory knock, Mettaton and Burgerpants (looking thoroughly depressed as always), burst through the front door in a flurry of overexcited flapping and noise. They were so loud, in fact, that Sans leapt a clean three feet off the couch. He also had to hastily dismiss a Gaster Blaster that had spontaneously materialised in his panic.

“m-mettaton?” Sans wiped a hand down his face. He'd almost _killed_ his brother's idol. “what the hell, dude? don't ya know how ta knock?”

“Sans! _Darling_!” _oh god... that_ _ **voice**_ _._ “ _So_ good to see you after all these _years_!” Sans blinked. He was pretty sure they'd seen each other just last week, at Asgore's barbecue – there'd been a group photo and everything. “I assume you know why we're here? Oh, of _course_ , you do, you lucky devil you! When Frisk told me, why I simply _had_ offer my services – anything for my favourite human you know, anything at all! It's-,"

And on and on it went.

Sans could feel a headache starting to form right between his eye sockets. One thought, clear as a bell, cut through the fog of confusion and irritation in his brain. _frisk, you are dead to me._

“so, uh...” Sans casually inserted himself into Mettaton's rambling (which was _still_ going on by the way). His grin, usually such a natural expression on his face, felt more like a grimace. “i guess the kid sent you over here to get me... ah, spruced up?”

Mettaton's face brightened – nothing like the prospect of a makeover to put a smile on those synthetic lips. “Why, _yes-,”_

“welp, thanks, but no thanks,” Sans interrupted, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “think i _bot_ it covered, pal.”

“... Was that a robot pun?” Mettaton narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

“yep. sorry; i can see you weren't _nuts_ about it.”

“Sans.”

“aww, c'mon. these puns are _electric_.”

“Sans, really!”

“heh. must be getting _rusty._ ”

Burgerpants, at least, seemed to find his jokes funny. He was grinning wildly behind Mettaton's back. Though, on closer inspection, that might have more to do with the dubious-smelling cigarette balanced between his lips than anything else.

Mettaton sighed, drawing Sans' attention back to him. He crossed his arms over his metal chest, tapping one booted foot against the floor.

“Frisk said you might do this.”

Sans shrugged. If they knew that, they shouldn't have sent him.

“Burgerpants!” Burgerpants snapped to attention, his boss's voice startling him out of his reverie. Sans couldn't blame the guy. The full force of Mettaton's... _everything_ was a hard thing to ignore. “The secret weapon, if you please!”

Practically tripping over himself in his rush to obey, Burgerpants riffled around in one of the many bags at his feet. He surfaced seconds later, clutching an envelope with a messy – and very familiar – scribble on the front. Holding it out to Sans, he offered a shaky (pained?) smile.

Sans accepted the letter with a growing sense of trepidation.

“what's this?” He was unsurprised to discover that he really didn't want to open it.

“Just a little... incentive,” said Mettaton sweetly. Sans did _not_ like that smug look on his face one bit. “We'll give you a moment to read it while we get set up in the kitchen. Don't take too long, darling!”

Sans waited until they were were out of the room, Burgerpants visibly sagging under the weight of Mettaton's many bags – seriously, what the _hell_ was in those things? – before examining the envelope any closer. The writing simply said ' _Sans <3' _and while it was hard to judge such things with bony fingers (less nerve endings) he didn't think it felt particularly thick.

“god _damn_ , kid...” He knew Frisk well enough by now to know a masterful guilt-trip when he saw one. Sans didn't even have to read the letter to know that in the next five minutes he'd be putty in their hands.

With an exhausted groan, Sans carefully peeled back the cover. His eyes hastily scanned the short note, growing ever dimmer with every word. By the time he finished his pupils were gone, leaving hollow sockets in their place.

When he finally joined Mettaton and Burgerpants in the kitchen, neither said a word. Sans sat down heavily in kitchen chair they'd set up for him, eyes still dark, and let them get on with their work in silence.

If they noticed the letter still crumpled in his trembling fist, they were kind enough not to mention it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank each and every one of you for your kind words and your kudos. Honestly, I wasn't expecting nearly as much praise as I've gotten. :) Also, I've gotten a rare day off on my hands, so expect another update tomorrow.


	5. De-bone-air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Sans has to admit he looks good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were some concerns after the last chapter that Frisk is being manipulative and/or emotionally blackmailing Sans. Let me please assure everyone that this is NOT the case. I'm sorry if it appears that way - that's honestly not what I'm going for, though I realise now after re-reading the chapter myself that, without context, it does seem suspect. The contents of Sans' letter will be revealed soon - either next chapter or the one after that, I forget which - and everything will make sense then (hopefully). 
> 
> So, to summarise; Frisk is not sexually harassing Sans. I promise.

Papyrus came home at 17.36, and was both elated and appalled to find Mettaton and Burgerpants hard at work on an unresisting Sans. At first he hovered uncertainly, caught between trying to extract his clearly miserable brother, or offering his adoring assistance to Mettaton. His two greatest loves warred with each other; Sans could see the indecision and anxiety written all over his sweet, innocent face.

“'s fine, pap.” He grimaced, trying to look more at ease than he felt. “i'm cool with it.”

He wasn't cool with it. Dressing up was in the top three for reasons Sans didn't date - pulling at the nearly too-tight collar of his dark purple dress shirt, he was starting to remember why.

Papyrus, ever eager to take the path of least resistance, accepted this answer without a fuss. He _did_ put a comforting hand on Sans' shoulder before joining the fray though, so that was something.

Currently, Mettaton and Burgerpants were arguing over what shoes he should wear – they'd narrowed it down to two pairs, both of which looked hellish uncomfortable in Sans' opinion. His brother, naturally, voted in Mettaton's favour, and while Burgerpants was given the dubious task of _somehow_ getting Sans into a pair of shiny black dress shoes (no easy feat, considering they were designed for people with flesh covering their bones _)_ Papyrus finally thought to ask what was going on.

“CAN I ASK _WHY_ WE'RE DRESSING MY BROTHER UP?”

“Oh, Papyrus darling, hadn't you heard?” Mettaton seemed genuinely taken aback; one for the album, since there was ordinarily very little genuine in _anything_ he did. He shot Sans an accusatory glare, one that the skeleton in question chose to studiously ignore. “Didn't you even tell your brother? _Shame_ on you, sweetheart!” He clicked his metallic tongue in disapproval.

Before Sans could reply with something typically acerbic, Papyrus cut in, wringing his hands and doing his best not to look hurt. “TELL ME WHAT?”

Momentarily tongue tied – God, if Papyrus could just stop giving him that _look_ – Sans struggled gather his wits enough to explain. It didn't help that Burgerpants was in the process of wedging his metatarsals into the ill-fitting shoes, using copious amounts of tissue paper to pad out the extra space. The bones of his feet were quite ticklish, and it was taking every bit of his concentration to keep from bursting into nervous laughter.

Luckily(?), Mettaton chose this moment to intervene.

“Dear Papyrus, our Sans is going on a date!” The robot took one of Papyrus' gloved hands and patted it excitedly.

Sans scowled. ' _Our_ Sans' indeed.

“REALLY?! WOWIE!” Papyrus turned a starry-eyed gaze on his fidgeting brother. Literal stars and everything. “WHO WITH? WHY DIDN'T YOU _TELL_ ME?! I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD TIME TO PREPARE YOU!”

“bro, i-,” don't need preparation. It's only Frisk. It only happened today. I don't particularly  _want_ to go. These are the things Sans wanted to say, but which got buried under the avalanche of energy and charisma that was Mettaton.

“Why _Frisk_ of course! Isn't it _wonderful_? I was starting to wonder if poor Sansy-,”

“don't call me that.” There was something awful about hearing that particular nickname in Mettaton's flamboyant voice. It sent chills of irritation right up Sans' spine.

Mettaton, of course, ignored him completely.

“-was _ever_ going to get his turn. Naturally, I'll want to hear _all_ about it darling – every detail, you mustn't leave a single thing out! If I know Frisky-,”

“don't call them that!” That was - somehow - even worse than 'Sansy'.

His complaint went unobserved. Again.

“-and I know them _extremely_ well, they're saving their best material for last. You're one lucky skeleton Sans, and-,”

Sans shook his head. There was no just reasoning with this bucket of bolts.

Tuning out Mettaton's excited ranting, Sans turned to his brother who had gone still and silent at the news. He looked like he might cry.

“look bro, they kinda...” Sans paused. There was no right way to finish that sentence. Maybe old habits die hard, but he didn't want Paps to worry anymore than he already very clearly was. “anyway, it's just one date. no big deal, right?”

Papyrus sniffed. “THIS IS TERRIBLE!”

“i know.” Finally! Somebody got it.

“YOU WERE JUST STARTING TO BE HAPPY!”

Wait, what?

“AND NOW FRISK WILL. BREAK. YOUR. HEART. AND YOU'LL BE SAD ALL OVER AGAIN!”

Okay. So he _didn't_ get it.

“paps, that's not gonna happen,” Sans said flatly, discomfort making his words colder than he meant them to be. He didn't like being reminded of his ongoing battle with depression, much less the fact that Papyrus was _aware_  it. He'd tried so hard to keep it to himself, after all. “i just don't think i like frisk that way. and that's not gonna change. the kid's good, but they're not _that_ good.”

Papyrus wasn't even listening. He was using his gloves to wipe up the bright orange tears leaking from his eye sockets. “NYOO-HOO-HOO! THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST THING _EVER_!”

“worse than my puns?” Sans couldn't resist.

His brother narrowed his eyes at him. “NO!”

“aww.” Sans shrugged and winked. “it was worth a _cry_.”

“SANS!”

It was at this point that Mettaton – done with his monologuing for now, and completely oblivious to the fact that he had gone largely unheeded for the duration – cut into their conversation in order to make the finishing touches to Sans' outfit.

Between them, Mettaton and Burgerpants manhandled him into a charcoal-grey waistcoat (they had to cinch the sides with artfully placed safety pins since, again, it hadn't really been intended for people _sans_ flesh). Papyrus, under his idol's keen instruction, fetched a pretty blue flower from the brothers' garden and set about affixing it to the coat's breast pocket. One blue bow-tie and liberal spritz of bone cologne later, and the makeover was ( _finally_ ) complete.

“... gotta admit,” Sans said reluctantly, examining himself in the mirror. “i look pretty damn good.”

And bonus points; apart from the shoes, it actually wasn't _too_ uncomfortable. Still not what he was used to, but bearable.

“Of course you do, darling,” Mettaton drawled, his robotic voice smug. “That _is_ what I do.”

Sans grunted. There was an insult in there somewhere, he was sure of it. Whatever – he could afford to let it go this once.

Turning to Papyrus, who was sitting straight-backed on the couch with an anxious frown on his face, Sans spread his arms wide and raised an eyebrow.

“well, bro? whatcha think?”

“YOU LOOK VERY-,”

“de- _bone_ -air?” Wink.

“HANDSOME.” It was a testament to his brother's anxiety that Papyrus didn't even flinch at the pun. “FRISK WILL BE PLEASED.”

“ya think so?” Sans couldn't help a very private, very bitter little smile.

They'd probably be less pleased when they heard what Sans had to say about that letter. But that was something best kept strictly between him and Frisk - Papyrus wouldn't understand it anyway.

“YES. AND. I HAVE DECIDED THAT I WILL DO MY DUTY AS THE MOST ULTIMATE OF BROTHERS, AND SUPPORT YOU THROUGH YOUR HEARTACHE WHEN THE TIME COMES.” He stood suddenly, lifting Sans straight up with as much ease as lifting a toddler and pulling him in for a bone-crushing hug. “HUGS. SPAGHETTI. ICE CREAM. PUNS APLENTY AND-,” _shudder_ , “GRILLBY'S. WHATEVER YOU NEED TO BE HAPPY, I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL PROVIDE.”

“heh.” Sans didn't even bother trying to explain (again) how unnecessary that would be. He patted his brother's back with a smile that was equal parts exasperated and affectionate. “you're the coolest, bro.”

“I KNOW.”

 


	6. Speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no words.

Frisk arrived promptly at six, and...

Well.

Sans stared wordlessly from his spot on the couch. He'd spent the last ten minutes there, quietly seething because Mettaton wouldn't let him have any ketchup (“And have you _ruin_ all my hard work before the main event? I simply won't hear of it!”) and scowling at the TV. Sour as his mood had been, he hadn't bothered to get up when the doorbell rang and instead allowed Paps to do the honours. Which – as it turned out – was all to the good. If he hadn't already been sitting down, Sans was pretty sure he'd have keeled over.

“...uh...” Why did it suddenly feel like he'd swallowed a golf ball?

Most of the time, Sans liked to think of himself as a fairly eloquent guy – even in the toughest situations (and let's face it, there'd been _plenty_ of those) he was always ready with a cheeky quip. Or a pun. A joke even. Something. _Anything_...

Not this time. This time, there were no words.

There were _literally._

 _ **No**_.

 _Words_.

Frisk observed his reaction timidly from the front door. They twisted the fabric of their plum-coloured skirt shyly in their small hands – still so delicate and childlike, despite their age – and scuffed the toe of one chocolate-brown ankle boot over the living room carpet. When a full minute crawled by in uncomfortable silence, the cutest blush began to light their face.

 **Too much?** Their signs were jerky and unpolished. Nervous.

Sans, still too stunned to form proper sentences, forced a hoarse sound through his teeth that might have been affirmative. Or negative. Or just plain awkward... Even _he_ didn't know what he was going for.

Luckily, his 'prep team' were more than ready to fill in the gaps.

“WOWIE! FRISK, YOU LOOK...” Pause. Even _Papyrus_ was at a loss for words.

Burgerpants whistled appreciatively. “Not too shabby, lil' buddy.”

“You look simply _divine,_ darling. Absolutely _exquisite!_ ” Mettaton cooed.

While the others crowded Frisk, complimenting and basically falling all over them, Sans took a much needed moment to compose himself. He felt like the breath had been knocked right out of him, which was funny because he didn't even _really_ need to breathe. He wasn't normally the type to get so caught up on outward appearances, but even _he_ had to admit Frisk was exceptionally well turned-out this evening.

The skirt – which he realised, now that his faculties were returning, was actually part of a dress – stopped just above their knees and swayed prettily whenever Frisk moved. It was strapless, held up by virtue of the tight bodice, and flared out just slightly at their hips. Certain ways the fabric caught the light made it glitter, and while they _were_ wearing a black leather jacket on top, Sans couldn't help but notice that it very deliberately did _not_ cover up anything – in his opinion – worth covering.

There was no doubt the outfit had been chosen specifically with Sans in mind. Setting aside the very obvious parallels between the shimmering fabric and the twinkling of stars (which was a cheap shot, by the way), Frisk had clearly been exceptionally careful in which parts of their body were emphasised by their wardrobe. Specifically their knees – pale and stark and very _defined_ against the purple of the dress – and their collarbones.

Sans was, as it happened, particularly fascinated by human collarbones (what could he say? It was a skeleton thing). And Frisk _knew_ it.

_you're killing me here, kid._

“Sans,” Mettaton purred, pulling Frisk's wrist to not-so-subtly position them in front of him. “Don't you have something you'd like to say to our little sweetheart here?”

With the initial shock starting to wear off, Sans scrambled for something suitably cool and collected to say. Papyrus was wringing his hands again, while in the background Burgerpants grinned and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. They all waited expectantly for his verdict.

“not bad, kid. _dressed_ to kill.” Nice. And his voice was – mercifully – quite steady too.

Yeah. He could do this. This game wasn't over yet.

 **Not bad yourself.** Frisk signed with a beam of pure delight. “Very de- _bone_ -air,” they said aloud, unconsciously echoing Sans' own joke back at him with a mischievous wink.

…

God dammit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: while I'm doing my best to keep Frisk gender-neutral in this story, I do like to think of them as the type to dress up girly on occasion. Gender has nothing to do with appreciating a cute outfit after all. ;)
> 
> If you don't like my choice here... Sorry, but you'll have to live with it.


	7. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not supposed to speak of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly because the last chapter was so short (I need to work on my chapter-ing) and partly because I know everyone is waiting for this one with bated breath - here! Two chapters in one day.

After a round of heartfelt thanks and goodbyes (on Frisk's part anyway – Sans mostly just cracked half-assed jokes), the pair left the house and climbed into a waiting taxi.

Sans was pleasantly surprised to find it _was_ a taxi, and not a limousine or something waiting for them. As intimately acquainted with their dating reputation as he was – he'd helped build it, after all – he'd half expected to be greeted with a private jet.

He chuckled to himself as they buckled up. No. That wouldn't make sense at all, would it? Sans wasn't impressed by stuff like that – he _knew_ the kind of strings Frisk could pull, the kind of money and power they had as Monster Ambassador. And it wouldn't have mattered if he didn't; he couldn't be swayed by any of that junk.

Frisk patted him on the shoulder, a concerned expression marring their face. **What's so funny?**

Sans shook his head. “nothin'. just... i see ya remembered my lessons, huh?”

 **Lessons?** Frisk tried to look innocent, but Sans knew better. They had a knowing smile and a cheeky glint in their eye.

“know your victim.”

 **Come on, Sans. You're not a victim.** They struggled not to laugh.

“did I say victim?” Sans asked, feigning innocence as poorly as Frisk had. “i meant date. obviously.”

**Obviously.**

Without warning, they both burst into fits of giggles.

Sans hated to admit it, but this was actually kinda... nice. Just like old times – if 'old times' had included the pair of them dressed up like a couple of mobster movie rejects. This is how he and Frisk were _meant_ to be. Easy and carefree; no obligation, no stress. Just good laughs and better company.

This dating business... It was an unnecessary strain on their friendship, no matter _what_ Frisk's intentions were.

The thought sobered him instantly, reminding him of the letter and the choice words he'd had planned out for them. But... looking at Frisk's happy face, Sans couldn't stand the thought of being harsh with them. He no longer had enough fire in his stomach to start an argument.

So instead, with as light-hearted a tone as he could manage, he said, “that wasn't cool, y'know.”

Immediately, Frisk looked away. At least they had the decency to look embarrassed.

**Don't know what you're talking about.**

“don't lie, pal.”

They fidgeted with the hem of their dress, biting their lip. Sans had gotten pretty good at reading them over the years, and he noted – with some satisfaction – that they at least felt guilty about it. That was good. It made his job a lot easier.

“don't worry. i'm not mad,” he assured them, mussing their short brown locks playfully. “anymore.” he added seriously.

Frisk's face scrunched up, a mixture of worry and shame on their dainty features. **I'm sorry. I just... really wanted us to go out tonight.**

“yeah, well... 's not the 'goin' out' that's the issue here, is it? we go out all the time.”

**You know what I mean.**

“yeah.” Sans grimaced. “gotta finish up your collection, am i right?”

A fleeting expression, something wry and fond and _deep,_ crossed Frisk's face. Sans almost missed it, it was gone again so fast. In the gentle silence following it's passing, he had to wonder if he'd really seen it at all.

Sighing, he scratched the back of his skull with one hand, the sound of bone-against-bone loud in the absence of any ambient background noise. They were starting to get off track here.

“anyway... my point is, ya can't pull that one out every time you want somethin' from me. 's not fair.”

 **I'm sorry.** Frisk was staring determinedly at their feet, hands balling into fists in their lap.

“okay. 'pology accepted.”

Conversation took an awkward nosedive after that. Sans blamed himself, and watching Frisk deliberately look everywhere but directly at him filled him with an irritated kind of sadness. They hadn't been this uncomfortable around him in a really long time. Sure, it was partly their own fault for dredging up topics better left buried... But at the same time, he felt like he probably could've handled it better.

After a solid five minutes, Sans finally sighed. He pulled the crumpled letter out of his trouser pocket, flattening it against the seat and re-reading with a frown.

_Dear Sans,_

_If you're reading this, then you're probably being a bonehead._

_And that's okay. If you really don't want to do this, I won't make you. You can call me right now and I'll cancel the whole thing. I REALLY want to go on a date with you, but not if you don't want to too._

_I told you earlier it was different with us, and it is. I said we were best friends, but really we're much more than that. What we are... there isn't a word to describe it. I'm so, SO grateful to have you in my life. Even though we both know I don't deserve you._

_I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. But if you're really set against this date, it's fine; I'll find another way. You're worth it._

_Lots of love,_

_Frisk_

Blatant manipulation. It was so obvious, and worse, so _effective_. Frisk hadn't said anything _wrong,_ exactly; it's not like he thought it was empty flattery or anything. Sans knew they meant every word. But that line... _“Even though we both know I don't deserve you.”_ That's the part that bothered him most.

Sans hated it when they talked like that – like they were the only one who'd done things they regretted. Like he wasn't in exactly the same boat. At least Frisk had the luxury of being able to say they hadn't been themselves. Sans had been in total control when he did what _he_ did.

When push came to shove, he didn't exactly deserve them either.

“so. you uh... really have a way with words,” he said at last, desperate to break the deafening silence.

If anything, Frisk managed to look even glummer.

“yeah. i'd say ya have a real _pen_ chant for it.” Sans gave them conspiratorial nudge for good measure.

Suddenly the tension broke like a fever. As usual, Frisk couldn't resist a little snort of mirth. It wasn't one of his stronger puns, but if there was one thing Sans could count on in this strange relationship of theirs, it was pity laughs.

 **Really?** Their eyes were dancing with glee. Sans was relieved to see it. **I always just _wrote_ it off!**

A surprised chuckle wrenched itself from his chest. “would i lie to you, bud? your skills are _ink_ -redible.”

They dissolved into peels of genuine laughter, and Sans felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Much better.

“I... really am sorry,” Frisk whispered softly when they eventually composed themselves. “Knew it... was a bad idea... We agreed. No more talking... about that.” They put their hand on his wrist, waiting until Sans reluctantly raised his eye sockets to meet their gaze. “Do you... want to go home?”

Ah. There was that weight again.

Talking was hard for Frisk. They rarely said more than a handful of words at any given time, and even when they did it was usually only after copious amounts of preparation. Saying something – _anything –_ unscripted, was kind of a big deal for them. Sans had only heard them do it three times total. Four now, he supposed.

It didn't make him feel good.

“look pal... don't beat yourself up over it.” Sans turned to stare out the window. “if i really didn't wanna be here, ya know i wouldn't be.”

After a moment of rumination, Frisk leaned in and placed a feather-light kiss to his nearest cheekbone. They took his hand and intertwined their flesh fingers with his bone ones, shuffling over to rest their head on his pointy shoulder.

“Thank you,” they murmured.

Sans knew they meant for more than just the date.

“heh. no problem, kiddo.”

 


	8. Criminal Streak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frisk has a naughty side.

They stopped in at Grillby's, picking up a pre-prepared doggy-bag of burgers, fries and – of course – lots and lots of ketchup. Sans stood uneasily by the door while Frisk spoke with Grillbz, trying (and mostly failing) to ignore the stares he was getting. At least this time the attention wasn't _solely_ on him – Frisk seemed to be getting just as much of an ogling as he was, if not more so.

He didn't know why, but the thought was both comforting and... _not,_ at the same time.

“Lookin' _sharp_ , Sansy,” Claptrap whistled, sidling around him through the front door and snapping him out of his haze.

It took him longer than it should have to come up with a suitably aloof retort.

“shucks. _cut_ that out, pal.” He winked, but both it and the pun were lukewarm to say the least. Sans gave himself a mental shake. He really needed to get it together. “i always look this _knife_.”

“Sure do,” came Frisk's quiet voice, making him jump. He hadn't noticed them approach. Kid could move like a damn ghost when they felt like it. **You ready to head out?**

Sans nodded. He held the door open as they slipped outside and clambered back into the idling taxi, noting as they passed the light flush on their skin and the shimmer of sweat on their brow. He smiled; Grillby tended to have that effect on fleshy types. As an afterthought, he pilfered a few napkins from a nearby table, nodding and offering a jaunty salute to the occupants who – being regulars and knowing him as they did – made no complaint.

“here,” he said to Frisk, taking his seat. “you're lookin' a bit _hot_ under the collar there.”

 **Thanks. You could say I'm...** Pause for dramatic effect. **Feeling the _burn_!**

“heh. you're _firing '_ em out like a pro, pal!”

And so it went.

The rest of the journey – all twenty minutes of it – was spent cheerfully batting the most awful puns back and forth. Frisk, who normally ran out of material after about five minutes, was clearly on top of their game this evening. Sans would never say so, but if they'd had to go on much longer they might well have beaten him this time. Just wait till he told Tori. She'd be so proud! Between the two of them, Sans and the monster Queen had moulded Frisk into a first class pun-er (much to the dismay of just about everyone else).

By the time they reached their destination, the pair were in stitches. Frisk's eyes had started to water, they were laughing so hard, and Sans felt lighter than he had all day. Hell, probably than he had in weeks. He forgot sometimes, but there was something so... _uplifting_ about the kid's laugh. It was a shame he didn't get to hear it more often, what with the two of them working (or in his case, pretending to work) such long hours. As he watched them snort into their hand, Sans realised he'd missed it.

Sometimes a guy just needed a laugh with his best bud.

They scrambled out onto the pavement, still giggling, and while Frisk went to square away the driver, Sans stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and tried to get his bearings.

He didn't recognise the area, but that didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Unlike the Underground where every region had it's own distinctive flavour, human settlements all looked basically the same. They could be in the middle of _China_ for all the difference it would make to Sans.

“so. where we headed, kiddo?” he asked as they started walking, hands still in his pockets.

Frisk tapped the side of their nose. **Secret.**

“alright.” He let it drop. God his feet were killing him. Even with the packets of tissue lining his shoes, they were still managing to rub his bones in the most uncomfortable fashion. He hoped they weren't going too far, because he honestly didn't think he could stand it much longer. “how long 'til we get there?”

Without a word, Frisk suddenly stepped up behind him and covered his eye sockets. Sans could probably have peered around their tiny fingers if he wanted to, but what the hell. He'd humour them. Dutifully, he extinguished his eye lights, allowing himself to be guided blindly for a span of several minutes.

Finally, with a puff of breath that caressed pleasantly over the side of his skull (he tried not to think too hard about that), Frisk uncovered his eyes again.

“Ta-da!” They spun around with a flourish, spreading their arms wide and grinning victoriously.

Sans raised an eyebrow. “the science museum?”

 **Yup. Your favourite, right?** Their pleased smile didn't shrink in the least.

Well, they weren't wrong. Sans _had_ spent many hours here, pouring over humanity's greatest scientific achievements with a detached kind of awe. Particularly in the beginning, when everything had still been so new, and he'd thought he was just killing time until the next Reset.

Nowadays, he didn't have the energy for it. It was distinctly exhausting, trying to read an exhibit while some nosy human gave him a good eyeballing from the sidelines. Not to mention the number of times he'd had to field awkward and sometimes down right _rude_ questions about his... _self._ Alright, he got it. The museum had an atmosphere that naturally encouraged curiosity, and he was a monster, and a skeleton, and humans – for whatever reason – found that fascinating. But really.

Fucking _boundaries_.

“i guess. but, uh... it closed at five, bud.”

 **Did it?** Frisk's answering smile was innocent. _Too_ innocent.

A sly grin worked it's way over Sans' features. _this just got interesting._

Frisk grabbed his hand and gestured towards the building, nudging his arm expectantly. Sans knew what they wanted, but he amused himself for a second by playing dumb.

“whatcha gettin' at kiddo? i can't _magic_ the place open.”

They made a disgruntled sound, somewhere between a long-suffering groan and a whine. Tugging insistently on his hand, they pointed and gesticulated wildly, either forgetting or simply not caring to use proper signs to communicate.

Sans got the message. Putting a hand to his chest, he pretended to be appalled.

“that's breakin' and enterin', pal. 's _illegal_.” Starting towards the entrance regardless, he darted a glance left and right, scoping the street for witnesses. “got a bit of a criminal streak in you, huh? tori will be heart _break-in_.”

When he was certain they wouldn't be seen, Sans quietly drew on his magic. It warmed his bones, tingling behind his ribcage and in his fingers – familiar, reassuring, like a wave of nostalgia. He gave Frisk's hand a gentle squeeze, a subtle warning that he was about to take one of his infamous 'shortcuts'. They squeezed back in understanding. One step. Two steps. Three...

And they were in.

While Frisk took a moment recover from the temporary disorientation, Sans wandered lazily over to the bank of light switches. He flicked them all, filling the main hall and off-shooting side rooms with harsh, artificial light. Fortunately, there were no front facing windows in the museum, and the back looked onto a factory complex that should be out of commission by this time. The chances of the illumination being spotted, let alone reported, were agreeably slim. Not that it would matter, either way.

The truth was, even if they got caught in here, there would be next to no penalty. Frisk was the monster Ambassador, after all – they could probably have pulled some strings and gotten _permission_ for the two of them to be here after hours. The breaking in part was just an adventurous little spin, likely included purely for Sans' sake. Already, several choice ideas for pranks came to mind, each more hilarious than the last.

Frisk knew him so well.

“well? shall we?”

He could hardly wait to get started.

 


	9. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, roll credits! ... or not.

After rearranging the museum's collection of skeletons into a mixture of hilarious and outrageously lewd poses (“what?” Sans chuckled at Frisk's raised eyebrow. “they're already naked; 'm just helpin' them get comfy.”), Sans slowly worked his way through the geology department. Using his magic, he moved the priceless rock samples inside their cases to make pictures of funny faces and – in one instance – a surprisingly detailed banana.

He was in the middle of setting up a veritable _minefield_ of whoopee cushions in the microbiology section when Frisk, laughing at his obvious enthusiasm, grabbed his hand. They pointed over their shoulder to an area Sans was well acquainted with, shaking the bag from Grillby's suggestively.

“aww, already?”

Frisk nodded decisively. **I'm hungry! And it's probably getting cold.** Food from Grillbz' always took a little longer than normal to cool, but it _would_ do so eventually.

“heh.” Sans shrugged, planting one last whoopee cushion with a flourish. “fine. but afterwards, we're gonna turn that train model in the engineering room upside-down.”

Still holding hands, they ambled across the foyer to the cavernous area labelled 'ASTRONOMY'. This exhibit, above all others, was Sans' favourite. Not surprising really, considering he'd been in love with the great beyond for as long as he'd known there _was_ one. To his delight, Frisk led him further back towards the 'dark room' – an extension to the original building that housed the museum's very best feature.

“ooh, dinner under the stars, eh?” Sans joked, giving Frisk a nudge. Despite his teasing, however, he was excited. He'd only been in once before, and he hadn't really been able to enjoy it that much. Again, too many curious eyes.

 **Yup. Feeling romanced yet?** Frisk shot back cheekily.

They handed him the bag and spent a few seconds tampering with the controls. Sans watched eagerly as the domed ceiling came to life, becoming a CGI representation of the stars above. Immediately he started picking out familiar constellations, muttering their names under his breath as he went. He didn't realise he was grinning until Frisk caught his attention with a smirk.

“yeah, yeah... you ever think you might be _too_ good at this dating business buddy?”

**Everyone needs a hobby, don't they?**

Plopping down in the middle of the floor, Frisk made a show of patting the spot next to them. With a snort, Sans accepted the flirtatious invitation. Reaching into the food stash, he offered them one of the lukewarm burgers.

They ate in companionable silence for the most part. Occasionally, one or other of them would point out something interesting on the projection overhead. Once or twice Sans fired out a few space-related puns, which Frisk dutifully giggled at. When the food was done, Sans kicked off his shoes and they both laughed at the sheer amount of tissue they'd been stuffed with.

For a date he hadn't even wanted to go on, it was actually turning out to be kinda fun.

 **Hey.** Frisk signed, idly sucking on one of the ketchup packets. **I have a present for you.**

“oh?” Sans smirked lazily. He propped an elbow on one knee, leaning his cheek into the palm of his hand. “you really didn't have to, pal.”

 **You don't want it?** They asked slyly, balling up the empty Grillby's bag and tossing it at his head. It bounced harmlessly off his skull and away into the surrounding dark. **Fine. I'll keep it for myself.**

“i didn't say _that_ ,” Sans chuckled. “go on then. hand it over.”

**Close your eyes then.**

He raised an eyebrow but played along, eye lights obediently blinking out as he closed his bony lids. Frisk shuffled around a bit; Sans heard the telltale rustle of their clothing as they stood, the sound of their light footsteps hurrying away from him, followed by the unmistakable crinkle of paper unfolding. When Frisk tugged on his sleeve, indicating he could look again, he opened his eyes and promptly frowned.

“a star map?” He already had tons of those. It was a cool thought, but nothing earth-shattering – and honestly, he was kind of disappointed. He'd expected much better of the self-proclaimed Dating Master. “thanks, bud.”

But Frisk wasn't finished. They shook their head indulgently, almost smugly, then uncapped the red pen they were clutching and – after a moment perusing the map – circled a lone star just off to one side of Orion's belt. They quickly scribbled something beside it, and Sans leaned in curiously to read.

'Sans' Star'. He glanced up to see Frisk beaming at him, clearly feeling very proud of themselves.

Brow wrinkling, Sans muttered an eloquent, “huh?”

With exaggerated showmanship, Frisk produced a rolled up parchment from behind their back. It was tied with a blue ribbon, and unless Sans was mistaken, also sealed with a very official-looking (probably fake) wax seal. They presented it to him like a diploma, eyes shining with mirth. Confused, Sans accepted it, quickly unravelling the paper with a baffled little smile.

Eyes skimming the overly pompous calligraphy within, his soul – normally so unwavering – gave a skittish stutter.

Contained within his skeletal hands, Sans held a 'Certificate of Ownership' over the star occupying the coordinates 5°51'8.7''. There was a space on the certificate for the name of the star – which he supposed he was allowed to choose – and an estimate of it's age (which, by Sans' calculations, had to be at least a hundred thousand years out).

None of that mattered. He felt giddy, all of a sudden. A bubble of hysterical laughter formed in his chest. If he'd had lips, he would've bitten them to keep it at bay, but instead he just pressed a hand to his mouth.

Frisk had _bought_ him a _star_. Sure, it was kind of a gag gift – more of a symbolic gesture than anything else, since owning an actual _star_ in any capacity was impossible. He could no more claim ownership over a star than he could dispense spaghetti from his mouth (though some days, thanks to Papyrus, that was less impossible than others). And as for names, well; he could name it whatever he damn well liked, but it wouldn't mean squat. Formally, it would still be just another number in the International Astronomical Union's database.

Still. In a way, it was the perfect gift. Something that simultaneously appealed to his funny bone (because really, _owning a star!_ Hilarious!) and also subtly showed him exactly how much Frisk cared. It was like they were saying they'd give him a star if they could. The thought made Sans feel delightfully warm and fuzzy.

Throwing an arm across their shoulders, Sans pulled them in for a playful noogie. Frisk squealed and laughed and pretended to try pushing him off, but a second later he felt their slim arm wrap around his waist and their weight settle comfortably against his side. God, he loved this kid so much. Who could ask for a better pal?

“thanks bud,” he snickered into their hair, resting his chin on their head. “best present i ever got.”

“Here,” Frisk said softly, voice overflowing with quiet glee. They wriggled until their hand found it's way into their jacket pocket, pulling out a small, slightly crumpled slip of paper. They handed it to Sans before leaning back into the embrace with vigour, enjoying the closeness. “ _Real_ gift.”

It was an admission to a fancy observatory up North, complete with unrestricted access to their state-of-the-art telescope and cosmological databases. _Plus_ free reign over a collection of thousands of articles and reports compiled by some pretty high-end scientists.

He was grinning stupidly, so happy he thought he might burst, when – completely out of the blue – Frisk dipped in and planted a kiss on his mouth. They didn't linger, pulling away again almost as quickly, but the action was so startling that Sans abruptly released his hold and took a jerky step back.

That was... new.

Having a relationship as unique as theirs was, it was by no means the first time they'd kissed. Of course Sans had no lips, so perhaps in his case 'kissing' wasn't an accurate description. Either way, he'd done his best approximation of it hundreds of times before... On their cheek. Or their head. Likewise, Frisk had only ever kissed him in a strictly platonic fashion as well, making their sudden departure from this unwritten rule all the more surprising.

Cheeks warming with a suffusion of magic, turning them humiliatingly blue and casting a cyan glow around the darkened room, Sans flailed helplessly for something to say. Frisk, for their part, looked shy but entirely unrepentant, their own face red and smiling.

“uh... um. th-that... er...” Words failed him.

Frisk, amused by Sans' incoherent stuttering, reached out to him once more with both hands. Splaying their fingers gently on either side of his head, they stared deeply into his sockets with a familiar _something_ in their eyes – determination. Their intentions couldn't have been any more transparent.

Panic, or an emotion close to it, welled in Sans' chest.

“ _whoa!_ ” he ducked out of the way of their searching lips, soul jumping erratically. “that's... kid, just – just... i-i mean...”

 **Don't you feel the same way?** Far from being offended, Frisk's question was coupled with an inquisitive head tilt.

“i... don't know?” Sans hadn't expected the question to come up. Like, _at all_. Now that it had, he shocked himself by discovering he didn't actually know how to answer.

 **How can you not know?** Frisk asked dubiously.

Quite easily, as it happened. On the one hand, Sans loved Frisk more than just about anything. Not more than Papyrus, obviously, but he couldn't confidently say he loved them any less either. It was just... different. Until now he hadn't bothered to put a label on it. He just loved them, and that was it – he didn't analyse the _how_ of it.

But on the other hand, all his earlier reservations still stood. He was still lazy, he still didn't want to commit to anything serious, and he was definitely still a skeleton with needs quite disparate to those of a human.

God, he needed time to process all this.

“i just don't.” He wished he could explain it better, but embarrassment made his words stick in his throat. “i, uh... what are you doing?”

Slowly, as though afraid they might spook him (and honestly, it was a distinct possibility), Frisk closed the distance between them. They put their hands on his iliac crests, not quite restraining but definitely preventing him from easily moving away, and studied his face with an intensity that made his cheeks burn ever brighter. If he had a stomach, Sans thought he might throw up.

“Checking,” Frisk said simply.

Suddenly, their face was close to his again. They gave him plenty of time to stop them, but Sans – like a deer in headlights – couldn't bring himself to move an inch. Their lips pressed against his teeth again, longer this time, watching him through half-lidded eyes as he tried to organise his muddled thoughts.

This kiss went on for ages, Frisk pressing in determinedly while Sans fluttered his hands at his sides, unsure what he wanted to do with this new development. Neither of them closed their eyes.

Awkward...

Gradually, however, Sans became aware of a growing urge – something he couldn't put name to, or even accurately describe, but which nonetheless filled his being with insatiable energy. He considered it for a moment, examining the feeling with as much detachment as he could muster, until Frisk caught his attention by bringing one warm hand up to cup his face.

“Don't fight,” they whispered against his mouth. “just _feel_.”

So he did.

Guided by pure instinct, Sans wrapped one arm around Frisk's waist, using it to drag them closer, and used his other hand to hold the back of their head, threading his fingers through their hair and pushing his teeth against them more insistently. Without thinking he opened his jaw – automatically his magic hastened to form his rarely-used tongue. Still half in a daze, he brushed it teasingly along Frisk's lower lip, taking advantage of their astonished gasp to slip inside and start exploring the warm, fleshy interior of their mouth

They were so... _soft._ Everything about them was so squishy, a stark contrast to the hard lines and angles of his own body. Sans may not precisely be thinking clearly right now, but he wanted _more_. More of this, more of Frisk. He wanted... wanted...

Snapping to his senses, he flinched away from them. Frisk made a low noise in their throat, a protest that nearly sent Sans straight back into his stupor. He forced himself to stay focused. This was too much, too fast, and he needed some time to _think_.

Unfortunately, it seemed he wasn't going to get it.

“I love you.”

What little sense of control Sans had managed retain throughout all the madness abruptly shattered with those three words. Three words, spoken so clearly and succinctly they _had_ to have been practised unto death. That was almost as shocking as the words themselves.

“what are you trying to _do_ to me, kid?” Sans mumbled weakly, pressing a palm to his skull.

“I. Love. You.” Frisk repeated.

“i... love you too...” he admitted, because taken at face-value, that much was true. “but... i mean this is all kinda sudden, and i don't even... i'm not sure... i'm... _ready_... for this, i mean.”

Even to his own non-existent ears that sounded stupid. Geez, what was he, a baby bones or something? But that's how he felt. Just this morning he'd been so sure he wanted nothing to do with dating. Frisk or otherwise. Now he was all flustered, his mind totally out of sync with his soul. He didn't know _what_ he wanted anymore.

To Sans' utter bewilderment, Frisk nodded as if they'd known that all along. They gathered him up in a tight hug, ignoring his half-hearted objections, and buried their face in the crook between his cervical vertebrae and clavicle. He tried not to shiver as their warm breath ghosted the surface of his sensitive bones.

“Nothing... has to change,” they murmured into his neck, squeezing him gently. “Not if... you... don't want.”

With a sigh, Frisk pulled back. They stroked a thumb across his blue-dusted cheek, smiling wistfully. Then, carefully – as though he were a wild animal that might startle at the slightest provocation – they started to sign.

**I just wanted you to know how I really feel – how I've felt for a while. What happens now is up to you. I'll support your decision a hundred and ten percent.**

Sans felt awful. Their confession was so earnest, so... _Frisk_. And here he stood, unable – for the time being and, knowing him, probably the foreseeable future – to make a choice in either direction.

He was a horrible friend, and he was sure he'd make an even worse boyfriend.

Never great at focusing his energy inwards, Sans tried to think about the choice laid before him in terms of others. What would his answer mean to Frisk? Well, that much was obvious – they'd made their stance clear. But what about Papyrus? Where would his brother stand? And their friends? And even if the people closest to them were fine with it, what about the world at large? Human-Monster relationships were still rare and somewhat frowned upon – how would the politics of the thing affect the people he loved?

For once in his life, Sans honestly didn't know what the best course was.

“kid, i – i need some time to... think about this.”

**Take all the time you need.**

Sans flinched. Why did they have to be so understanding? Shouldn't they be mad? Or hurt? Disappointed? _Something?_

“i'm sorry.”

**Don't be.**

“i'm just...”

**I know.**

…

What had he done to deserve someone like Frisk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That whole business about the star coordinates... yeah, I may or may not have been talking out of my ass. I couldn't find a site in plain English to explain to me how star locations and such work (not that I looked for long).


	10. Skullking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus can pun. He just chooses not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit late - work is a thing that I do, and I've also kinda been working on another story as well (one that I'm very excited about, and will hopefully get to share with you all soon). 
> 
> But! I think the wait will have been worth it - this is definitely my favourite of the chapters, and I'm REALLY pleased with how it turned out. Enjoy!

A week passed. Then another. Before Sans knew it, almost a month had gone by and he was still no further forward with his 'thinking'. He hadn't seen Frisk in all that time – some kind of record, surely – and he didn't know whether it was because he was outright avoiding them, or if they were willingly giving him his space.

Probably both.

Papyrus had been – predictably – unbearable for the duration. Sans hadn't told his brother anything about his and Frisk's date, and avoided questions pertaining to it like the plague – leading Papyrus to conclude that he was indeed heartbroken, just as predicted. True to his word, there had been a surplus of hugs, ice cream and Grillby's, as well as a hazardous amount of his home cooked spaghetti. The puns were... a work in progress.

Still, for as suffocating as his brother had become, Sans appreciated the effort. It didn't help him with the situation at hand, but he he didn't feel as... _apprehensive_ when Papyrus coddled him.

Staring at the ceiling, wide awake despite the fact that it was a Saturday, Sans tried to order his thoughts. Not an easy task, considering he hadn't been sleeping right since... well, since.

 _start with what you know,_ he told himself. _start with the facts._

Easy enough. He was Sans. He was a skeleton. His best friend was Frisk. Frisk was a human. Frisk loved Sans. Sans loved Frisk...

And as per usual, it was at this point that his mind spiralled out of control. Because there were different kinds of love, weren't there? There was platonic love, romantic love, familial love... And Sans didn't know which one – if any – applied here. He'd never had to think about it before. He wasn't thrilled about doing it now.

With an irritated sigh he rolled onto his side, facing the wall. What a mess.

_Knock, knock._

“who's there?” Sans huffed, burying his face in his blanket.

“HUMAN.”

In spite of his sour mood, Sans couldn't help smiling a little. Good ol' Paps. He was trying, bless him.

“human who?”

A telling pause, as though Papyrus was mentally preparing himself to deliver the punchline.

“ _HUMAN_ TO TELL ME YOU'RE NOT UP YET?”

A startled laugh ripped itself from Sans' throat. That one had been almost _good_.

He twisted and waved a hand at his door, magically opening it to admit a thoroughly disgusted-looking Papyrus.

“good one, bro. gettin' better all the time.”

“THAT WAS EXCRUCIATING.” He stomped into the room, throwing himself at the bottom of Sans' bed with a long-suffering groan. “HOW DO YOU _DO_ THIS EVERY DAY, BROTHER?”

Sans shrugged, grinning. “practise?”

“UGH.”

Sans watched as Papyrus covered his eye sockets with a gloved hand, muttering under his breath about wasted time. An unexpected, and not unwelcome, rush of affection washed over him at the sight. His brother was _so_ cool.

A thought occurred to him.

“hey paps, why aren't ya out with undyne?”

“OH...” Papyrus looked sheepish for a second, before regaining his usual exuberance. “TODAY IS LEG DAY. AND MY LEGS DO NOT REQUIRE ANY ADDITIONAL TRAINING, PRESENTLY. ”

“... you're skipping leg day?” There was a joke in there somewhere, Sans knew it.

“INDEED. BECAUSE! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM A SUPERIOR BROTHER. AND I HAVE DECIDED TO HELP YOU WITH YOUR DILEMMA.”

Mood immediately curdling, Sans tried not to scowl. “that, uh, won't be necessary, bro.”

“NONSENSE! I INSIST!” Papyrus waved away his concerns in true Papyrus fashion – with insurmountable enthusiasm. “YOU HAVE BEEN... ARRRRGH, _SKULLKING_ FOR WEEKS. IT IS TIME TO GIVE YOURSELF A SHAKE.”

Sans grumbled. “didn't think i was _that_ down, _tibia_ honest.”

“DO NOT _FIBULA,_ BROTHER,” Papyrus shot back, grimacing.

“ _spine_ by me.”

“... MUST WE?” Though his words were brimming with aggravation, Sans didn't miss the smile he was trying to hide. “MOVING ON! I BELIEVE IT WOULD BENEFICIAL, BROTHER, FOR YOU TO CONFRONT THIS PROBLEM HEAD ON!”

Wait, what?

“TO THAT END, I HAVE INVITED THE HUMAN TO SPEAK WITH YOU!” Bottom jaw cradled in his right hand with his right elbow nestled in his left, Papyrus nodded knowingly. “HUMAN FRISK!” Frisk shuffled into the open doorway, an apologetic smile on their tired-looking face. Sans' soul jumped at the sight of them. “I LEAVE THE REST TO YOU! NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

With exaggerated glee, Papyrus scrambled out onto the landing, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving the two to stare at each other across the no-man's-land of Sans' bedroom. A handful of seconds passed in silence, before the door cracked open again and Papyrus shot a meaningful glare across the room at his still-abed brother.

“NEITHER OF YOU LEAVES UNTIL THIS MATTER IS RESOLVED.” _SLAM._

Sans, nasal bone pinched between the phalanges of his thumb and index finger, let out a weary moan.

“he _knows_ , doesn't he?”

“Sorry,” Frisk whispered, though he could tell without looking at them that they were actually kind of amused by his brother's antics. “Cornered me.”

“when?” Probably quite recently – otherwise, this wouldn't _just_ be happening now, it would have happened ages ago.

“Yesterday.”

“heh, figures.”

The atmosphere between them was awkward, and Sans couldn't help but feel like that was his fault. Frisk made no move to approach him, and while he desperately wanted to, he didn't have the courage to beckon them over.

They couldn't hang about in silence forever though, so at last – after a long moment examining the stitching of his blanket – Sans forced himself to look up.

Frisk looked... exhausted, honestly. Lank hair, pale skin; there were dark circles under their eyes, as if they hadn't slept in _years_. But even looking as run down as they did, Sans thought he'd never seen a more welcome sight. He hadn't realised just how much he missed them – his (metaphorical) brain might still be conflicted, but his (metaphorical) heart sang with joy.

“how ya been, kid?” he asked softly, trying not to be offended when they flinched at his voice.

 **So-so,** they signed, fingers fumbling through the motions clumsily. **Got that new Monster Equality Act written up... Just needs Asgore's okay before I can submit it to Parliament.**

“good. that's... that's good.” _wow... outstanding work, sans,_ he thought to himself reproachfully.

**You?**

“not bad.” Lies. “you know me – _bone_ doggling like always.”

Frisk laughed weakly, then fell quiet. They made a show of studying their fingernails.

Sans frowned. This was downright agonising. How had he let things get this way between them?

“pal, listen-,”

“I'm sorry!”

Sans blinked. “huh?”

“I'm s-sorry!” Frisk repeated, and belatedly Sans realised there was tears in their eyes. He felt himself fracture.

 **I didn't mean to scare you away for good!** Frisk's hands flew through the signs, forcing Sans to concentrate lest he miss any. **I didn't think I would freak you out this much and I'm sorry and I know you're suffering but I just want us to be friends again and I wish I hadn't said anything I wish I could make it so none of this happened I've wanted to reset so many times but that wouldn't help because it's you so you'd know anyway and it would only make things worse and-,**

“whoa, whoa, _whoa_! kid, calm down, i can hardly keep up!”

Another lie. Honestly though, he'd seen enough.

He clambered out of bed, making his way to Frisk as quickly as his messy lair would allow. Shoulders still shaking with strangled sobs, their hands fluttered like frenzied birds, as though they wanted to form more signs but couldn't. Sans hesitated before them, just for an instant, before resolutely shoving his lingering doubts aside and pulling them in. He tucked their head against his sternum (which, he noted with some embarrassment, was bare – he'd forgotten to put his shirt on) and inelegantly patted their back, making uncertain cooing noises into their hair.

“we will _never_ not be friends, frisk,” he said fiercely. “i've been such a selfish bonehead... _i_ should be the one apologisin'”

How could he have let it get this far? He'd made them want to _reset_. Jeez, Frisk had bared their soul to him that day, and Sans - in typical fashion - had been too wrapped up in his own stupid issues to think about what his indecision was doing to them. It was reprehensible.

They deserved a straight answer.

He just... didn't know if he had one yet.

...

...

Welp. He supposed he would just have to _find_ one.

“frisk?” His face started to burn. The telltale blue glow shone against Frisk's hair. He reflexively held them tighter. “i'm... gonna try somethin'. 'kay?”

They nodded against him.

Okay.

Alright.

Oh God, he felt sick...

No. No, he could do this.

He _could_.

Taking a deep breath, Sans carefully pulled away. He awkwardly put his hands on either side of Frisk's head, tilting their neck so he could look into their eyes. Almost as uneasy with direct, unexpected eye-contact as they were with words, Frisk's gaze immediately slid away. A grunt from Sans brought it back.

Haltingly, Sans lowered his face to theirs, keeping his eyes open – he wanted to see... _something_. He wasn't sure what, but instinct told him he should watch. When his teeth met their lips, they blushed a pretty red. Sans waited.

Eventually, Frisk's arms came up to wind around him, settling on the back of his exposed rib cage. Sans watched as their eyes became glassy, filling with more tears, but they didn't close them or break the kiss. They watched him right back, waiting patiently for his next move.

_okay... now what?_

If he'd been expecting a hallelujah moment, Sans was sadly mistaken. While he would admit the feeling of kissing (for want of a better word) Frisk was nice, it wasn't the eye opener he hoped it would be. He felt the same as he had the last time; flustered, and confused, and maybe a little... afraid?

Great. What was he supposed to tell the kid now? He _couldn't_  say he still didn't know how he felt – that would be cruel. Should he lie? Would that be worse?

Of course there was always option C. Tell Frisk he loved them, and then let the chips fall where they may. Technically it wasn't a lie. And if Frisk took it to mean he returned their feelings _that_ way... well, would that really be so bad? He _had_ enjoyed their date – it wouldn't kill him to go on a few more, if it made them happy. The kissing wasn't so bad either. Minimum togetherness-time might be a pain, but then again, they spent so much time hanging out anyway... Plus, Frisk was notoriously easy to please when it came to gifts and the like. For as annoying as things like Valentine's Day might be, at least it wouldn't be the minefield it had been in the past.

Funny... When he thought of it like that, Sans almost couldn't remember why he hadn't wanted to date them in the first place.

…

_ah..._

There it was. His hallelujah chorus. _Finally_.

With renewed enthusiasm, Sans deepened the kiss. Dropping his hands to Frisk's shoulders, pulling them closer, he let his bony eyelids flutter shut while his mouth cracked open. His tongue, forming quickly in response to the direction of his thoughts, probed delicately at the seal of Frisk's lips.

Frisk responded eagerly.

Now that he wasn't mired in his inner turmoil, Sans took his time to properly appreciate the new sensations. Frisk's mouth was  _so_ soft, their tongue agile and slick against his own – their breath tasted faintly of coffee and cinnamon, and he quickly decided it was his new favourite flavour. They were breathing raggedly through their nose, the little puffs of air tickling lightly against his maxilla, making him shiver. When he felt their tiny fingers curl around his ribs at the the back, he jolted.

Had those bones always been that sensitive?

Breaking away from the kiss – somewhat reluctantly – Sans let his forehead rest against theirs. There would be time enough for exploration later. For now, he had an apology to make.

“frisk... buddy, i am so sorry.” Frisk's face fell and they immediately tried to disengage. Sans tightened his grip. “i'm sorry it took me so long to figure out somethin' that shoulda been obvious from the start. i'm sorry i made you wait, and... well, 'm just sorry.”

Peppering little kisses all over their face, he tried to convey the truth of his words in every fleeting touch. He kissed their cheeks, their forehead, their nose, their eyes. He kissed everywhere he could reach, revelling in both the novelty of his actions and the accompanying lightness in his chest.

“i love ya, kiddo.” And for the first time, Sans _truly_ understood what that meant.

Frisk didn't hesitate. Beaming, a few stray tears leaking from their eyes, they replied, “I love you too.”

“heh.” Sans wiped their face clean with his thumbs. “i know ya do.”

He leaned in for another kiss, thinking to himself with a smirk that he could definitely get used to a whole _surplus_ of them when-,

“NYEH-HEH-HEH! THE GREAT PAPYRUS TRIUMPHS ONCE AGAIN!” Both Sans and Frisk jumped apart, blushing guiltily. “THIS CALLS FOR CELEBRATORY SPAGHETTI!”

They glanced at each other over the sounds of Papyrus clattering his way downstairs.

Sans laughed first, Frisk smothering a giggle behind their hand shortly after.

“c'mon pal.” He gave them a quick skele-brand smooch on the cheek, taking their hand and leading them after his brother. “we'll _peck_ this up later.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, finished at last. I hope you all enjoyed my random little... whatever this is. Let me know what you thought (especially if you have any suggestions that could help me improve my writing - that's what it's all about after all!). :)


End file.
